Your Heaven, My Hell
by btch sprinkles
Summary: Pre-Series, Angry!John, Deaf!Sam, big brother!Dean. The night Sam left for Stanford was one of his best nights, the night Sam left for Stanford was one of Dean's worst.


**A/N- So while watching the episode where Sam and Dean are shot and sent to heaven, I was inspired to do some more fic in my deaf!Sam verse. Also, I'm not writing in ASL grammar because trying to write dialogue, even signing dialogue in ASL grammar is tough and awkward, so I'm trying to find that happy medium by describing the signs as best I can- which is way harder than it seems, fyi lol. I'm not D/deaf, however my autistic son first learned to sign before he developed speech (which now he's almost a teen and just doesn't ever stop talking... mostly about Super Mario and Sonic because of course he's going to be a retro gamer just like his dad lol) so my signs and signing order tends to be taught a little differently than a D/deaf or hard of hearing conversation. But I'm doing the best I can to keep it realistic. **

**qp**

Thump! Thwack! Thump thump thump!

The Jack Daniel's glowed that really ugly sort of brownish amber color in the yellow light of the desk. There were rings on the stained white surface from countless glasses where the thick liquor had spilled over the side because he was just too damn drunk to pour something neat. Even if that's exactly how he took his whiskey. Neat, not a drop of secondary substance to water it down, because god he needed to feel that burn.

Thump thump! "Goddamn it!"

Dean didn't bother with the glass. The bottle was nearly empty thanks to a John-Sam-fighting induced binge and he grabbed it with an unsteady hand, took a swig and slammed it down on the small, type-printed letter sitting on that desk. He watched as a small drip fell down the side of the bottle, staining the crisp white and black 'Congratulations, Sam Winchester' an ugly, vomit-yellow.

"Will you stop!"

Dean pressed his clasped hands behind his head and closed his eyes. God, he was so drunk. The room was spinning, and when he opened his eyes, it wasn't any better. He watched one of Sam's mathletes trophies wobble back and forth before coming to a stop and then splitting into two. Fuck, he was going to regret this in the morning.

Feeling his stomach heave a little, he took the last swing from the bottle and wiped his mouth off on the back of his hand. He wasn't going to puke. Puking was for pussies. Cowards. Weak little men who couldn't keep their shit together. He stood up and glanced around, wondering why the hell none of this shit was in boxes.

Sam's headphones, huge to cover his whole ear because Sam couldn't hear the music, just the way it vibrated when it was on full blast. His old hearing aids, never did jack shit for the kid but Sam kept them anyway because… well Dean didn't know why. They weren't even actually meant for Sam. Dean had swiped them from some old man who'd taken them off at a department store while trying on hats. He just wanted to see if they did anything for the kid. They didn't, but Sam wore them anyway because Dean was the one who brought them home.

Dean saw a car at the curb, engine on, headlights shining against the heavy rain that was falling. Seemed fitting, really. He glanced back at the bottle and wished there was more in it. Tonight would be a really damn good night to drink himself into a stupor.

Thump! Thwack! "Sorry little shit!"

It was the muffled cry that sent Dean out Sam's bedroom door and into the hallway. He peered down over the banister, barely able to see into the kitchen, his vision still doubled, but he could walk. If anyone could hold their liquor, it was Dean. He'd been holding his booze since he was fifteen.

Glancing back down the darkened hall, Dean knew exactly where John kept the rest of it, but he also knew John was going to need it tonight. That car at the curb wasn't going anywhere.

Crash! Dean saw a shadow go flying across the edge of the kitchen and something broke. Glass. A second muffled cry.

Dean was pissed at Sam, pissed because he didn't belong. Pissed because he was just going to leave Dean with John. Pissed because Dean didn't know what he was, if he wasn't Sammy's big brother. And fuck that kid, you know, because it wasn't goddamn fair. Maybe he deserved a few knocks about the head.

"Stop!" The word was unclear, like spoken through cotton, consonants over-pronounced, deep in the back of the throat, and Dean knew Sammy was scared down. Not because Sam couldn't hold his own, but because he knew that by now, Sam was having trouble holding back.

John, who stared at his kid like he was a goddamn invalid, had no idea what sort of hell Sam could unleash if pushed to that point. It had always been up to Dean to keep Sammy from letting go of his anger on their dead-beat dad.

He took the stairs two by two, so damn dizzy by the bottom that he almost fell. A half-full bottle of Jim Beam sat on the little side table by the front door. John's, but Dean didn't care at this point. He picked it up by the neck, took a swig and sauntered into the kitchen.

Two chairs were broken, a few glasses, a pile of spilled something that Dean couldn't look at otherwise he would vomit. Sam was mopping up a gash on his arm because John had quite obviously thrown an empty bottle at him. John was sweating profusely, drunker than Dean, leaning against the wall for support and he was just pissed.

"Tell him he's not going anywhere," John demanded, pointing at Sam who was glowering from the sink.

Dean rolled his eyes at his father. "You tell him." He was so sick of this shit. So sick of being the terp, so sick and tired that his father wouldn't goddamn talk to his own son, for Christ's sakes. What sort of father didn't learn to speak his kid's own language. Well, John Winchester, for one.

"He won't look at me," John said, standing up and wiping his sticky hair out of his eyes. "He just keeps waving his hands around and I have no idea what he's saying."

"He's probably telling you that you're a piece of shit," Dean answered, unable to stop the whiskey-induced verbal diarrhea. On a normal day, Dean would have just played terp between the two, hating himself, hating John a little more, and bleeding inside for Sam because the kid didn't ask for this.

John glowered at Dean who shrugged and then John said, "He's not going."

"Oh he's going," Dean said, feeling like the words were sharp as razors as they spilled from his lips because fuck, Sam was just going to go, and that would be it.

'It's S-T-A-N-F-O-R-D,' Sam spelled out rapidly, punching the letters into the air with his eyebrows up, eyes wide trying to emphasize that this wasn't some bullshit community college where he was going to learn to become a fucking mechanic. Sam was living out every hunter's secret dream. He was just… stopping. He was going to have a degree and career and money. A family and one day he was going to stop carrying around salt and holy water and looking for flashing eyes. Dean was so jealous the pain was physical.

'I know,' Dean said, tapping his four fingers on his temple. He did know, and deep down he knew John knew, too. But John couldn't overcome that jealousy because he'd had that. He'd had all of that and some fucked up monster had taken it all away. And maybe John was just scared that it would happen to Sam… but probably not. More than likely John was just an asshole and he hated his son a little bit because he just couldn't understand him but he didn't want to, either.

"Tell him that he's not going," John slurred, watching the quick exchange between the brothers.

"You tell him," Dean said again. "Goddamn it. He's your son, you should know how to talk to him. He's eighteen for fuck's sake, dad. If you don't know how to tell him to stay by now, I can't help you."

John looked helpless, absolutely helpless and Dean hated himself for that little sprig of pity that blossomed in his gut. Hated himself because John didn't deserve a moment of pity. He'd done this to Sam, isolated the kid. He'd done this to Dean, turned a four year old into a parent. A four year old who took midnight feedings and diaper duty. A five year old who pushed a stroller and knew the best brands of babyfood. A six year old who scouted out preschools that were Deaf friendly. A seven year old who went grocery shopping and did his math homework at 2 AM because Sammy had a fever all night and Dean had to make sure he wasn't catching pneumonia or something.

John didn't deserve shit. Dean felt a bit of the liquor rise into his throat and he fought it back down. He set the bottle of Jim Beam on the table, made a Y with his hands and then tapped it in the air. He rubbed his flat palm against his chest and then shrugged.

John, obviously suspicious, was just too drunk to argue and Dean knew he was hoping it was a swear word or some other insult, but he copied Dean's signs and Sam threw his head back and laughed.

'Stop telling him what to sign,' Sam's fingers snapped, his pointed fingers whipping around each other. 'He should know." He jabbed his finger at John and then his four fingers against his temple, his face showing just how pissed he was about it.

'So tell him,' Dean signed back, his finger drawing from his chin to John and he smirked. 'Talk.' He tapped his four fingers against his chin.

Sam's cheeks went bright red, but he let out a sigh, grabbed a dishtowel to press it against his still-bleeding wound, and he came around the counter. John backed up involuntarily and looked over at Dean who was smirking.

John didn't like Sam's voice. Sam's voice made him uncomfortable. John had said so during several drunken conversations after Sammy was in bed the evenings Dean worked with him on his speech therapy.

"It just sounds unnatural."

"That's because it is," Dean would snap back, only eleven but already pissed at his dad for treating his son like some dirty, useless foster child. "He signs, that's his language. He speaks with an accent, just like any other foreign son of a bitch who learns English."

"Watch your mouth," John would slur back and Dean would roll his eyes because who did John think he was, asking Dean to watch his mouth. "I don't have time to learn some hand signals, Dean-o, and you know it."

But what Dean knew was that it was bullshit, but he just sort of let it go. Maybe that's why Dean felt so shitty, because he should have fought John more, and he should have made the old man understand that he had two sons, two perfect sons just as they were, and he let John treat Sam like that.

Dean would carry that burden forever.

"I'm going to college," Sam said, filling the kitchen with his booming voice.

John winced and looked at Dean who purposefully kept his gaze on Sam. He gave a small nod to Sam, encouraging the kid to keep going because Sam wasn't as low as John. He would use someone else's language to get his point across, even if it wasn't fair.

"I deserve to go to college," Sam said, thumping his chest with his uninjured hand. "I'm smart, even though you think I'm stupid." He thumped his A hand on his forehead for emphasis. "I'm worth a good education even though you treat me like I'm some step-son." He twerked a sideways L near his stomach, brought his hand up to his forehead and then down like he was cradling a baby. "But I'm your son, and you have to let me go. You don't want me here. No more signs in the house, no more scary Deaf accent, no more dragging a hungover Dean out of bed to tell me that you were sorry for missing my school play," he bicycled his A hands toward his body and then sighed.

John, who winced at every word Sam was saying, shook his head. "I didn't… I don't…"

Sam shook his head and slapped the pinky side of his right hand onto the flat palm of his left. 'Stop.' He glanced at Dean, his eyes red and filled with tears because the kid was obviously just a thousand percent done with this whole thing. "Give me one reason to stay," Sam said and tapped his Y hand a few times in front of him. "Just one, and I'll stay."

The silence in the room was thick, heavy, pressing and Dean stared at John. He was begging the man, say anything! Say anything! Tell this lost, hurt, angry kid that you love him and you want him to stay and we can be a family. Tell him you just don't want him to go. Tell him YOU don't want him to go. You piece of shit old man!

John dropped his head, eyes down at the ground. With a weak, floppy hand he brought his pointed finger from his chest to the door.

Sam made a small sound in the back of his throat and shook his head. He dropped the towel, glanced at Dean… and then he was gone. Dean forced his feet to move, to chase after the kid who was walking down the driveway at break-neck speed, and Dean couldn't call after him.

He lunged at the kid, catching him by the edge of his shirt and Sam turned, openly crying because this was a kid who didn't care of crying, or puking, or saying I love you was for pussies.

'Please,' Dean rubbed his flat hand against his chest.

Sam shook his head and held up a finger for Dean to wait. He threw his bag into the back of the car and signed a quick something to the driver that Dean missed. When Sam turned back to Dean, his eyes were dry but bright red and swollen, and Dean's heart felt like it was going to just explode with the adrenaline and pain he was feeling.

'I have to,' Sam signed.

Dean tapped his four fingers on his temple and licked his lips. 'I know. I hate you.' He said, making a flicking motion toward Sam with both hands.

Sam smiled and yanked Dean in for a hug. It lasted so long and Dean thought maybe if Sam remembered how much Dean gave a shit, how much Sam made life with this drunken fool bearable, he'd just… stop. He'd just stop and change his mind and just… stay. Fuck.

Sam pulled back and wiped his freshly wet cheeks off with the back of his hand. 'You okay tonight?'

Dean tapped his curved palm over his flat wrist. 'Tonight? Tonight will be hell.' He tapped his finger down and then wiggled his fingers up. He never liked the sign for hell, though he wasn't sure why.

'I'll write,' Sam signed.

'No you won't,' Dean retorted, flinging his thumb back over his shoulder, because they both knew Sam wouldn't They both knew the moment Sam was free, that was it, and there would be no looking back. Dean was stuck, and they both knew it and Dean loved Sammy too much to make him stay and suffer like this.

And then Sammy was in the car and Dean stood on the street watching as the lights faded into the distance. He stood there, long enough, waiting until he was sure that John had finished off a bottle or two and was completely unconscious on the kitchen floor.

Tomorrow would be the day an angry John threw out all of Sammy's stuff and declared the boy dead to him. Tomorrow would be the day John would sing his relief through the house that there was no more signing and Dean could just talk, and they could pull of that stupid doorbell that flashed the lights and that machine John hated which allowed Sammy to call 911 if some monster attacked—which it had, twice—and John wouldn't have to worry anymore.

And Dean would sit in his room, and he wouldn't cry, and he would put all of the pictures of him and Sammy face-down because he couldn't stop the ache in his chest from spreading.

The night after Sammy's stuff was gone John would get drunk and beat on Dean, because the night Sammy left was hell, but the night after, when it all sunk in, that was purgatory. The place where all of the monsters roamed free and everything was made of ugliness and pain. But Dean, he'd choose to stay because that's what he did, and if he had to take it so Sammy could just be free of all of this, he would.

He was a good kid, that Sammy, and he'd do great things some day.


End file.
